


A Prussian Love Story

by tisiph0ne



Category: Historical RPF, Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Nazis, Nazisploitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-07-27 10:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisiph0ne/pseuds/tisiph0ne
Summary: Revenge is sweet.





	A Prussian Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for silly-crimes on tumblr. 
> 
> Rated explicit for Magda/Lída; also contains less graphic Magda Goebbels/Karl Handke, Magda Goebbels/Joseph Goebbels, Lída Baarová/Joseph Goebbels. 
> 
> Further warnings: Hitler cameo, abortion mention. Plus, a fair amount of Nazi ideology that comes with the territory. Which is probably the most truthful part in this piece of (a)historical fiction. 
> 
> Meaning to say: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author does not condone Nazism. No humans or animals were harmed during the writing of this fic.

For a moment it feels as if they've left Berlin behind. The forest is dark at the side of the road, the street downhill towards Schwanenwerder a pale band in the headlights of the car. Karl's gaze is fixed to it, his jaw set, his lips a thin line. He looks very serious. He takes a lot of things serious others don't. Magda likes that about him. In a way. He's reliable, which is a good quality for a man, even though somehow it fails to inspire her passion. 

Not so long ago, Magda was foolish enough to think she might attract a wolf's attention, she dreamed of him ravishing her, fantasized of rapture surpassing the ecstasy evoked by his speeches, but life isn't a fairy tale and instead of being claimed by a wolf, she has to content herself with dogs, lap dogs and watch dogs and sheep dogs, whatever the situation requires. Karl is a good boy at least, he won't cause her trouble.

A plume of smoke curls from the cigarette in his right hand that's resting lightly on the steering wheel and Magda gently takes it from him, puts it to her lips to take a drag. She's aware she has his full attention now, his eyes glued to her mouth and her throat as she sucks down the smoke. She pretends not to notice for one, two, three seconds. A little white cloud billows from her red lips when she exhales.

He's always careful not to be caught staring so once she turns towards him, nudging her hand against his to pass back the cigarette, his eyes are back on the road. He takes it, automatically, without as much as a glance in her direction. She places her left hand on his thigh, suppressing a smile when she feels him tense up. He will think she has changed her mind.

“You can drop me off here, darling.” she says, right before they reach the bridge leading into Inselstraße. “I'll walk the rest of the way.” 

Karl, being a good boy, always does what he's told, even though, as in this case, reluctantly. He pulls over just before the bottleneck and turns off the engine. Concern plastered is over his face, as if she had asked him to let her off in a dirty back alley in Wedding, he turns towards her. 

“Are you sure, Magda?” Despite his best efforts he sounds disappointed. 

“Quite sure, thank you.” She can't help the icy note slipping into the factitious sweetness of her tone. As much as she craves to see him hurt by her rejection, she doesn't like him questioning her decisions. It's not his place to tell her what she can and can't do. There are only two men in the world she's taking orders from, and Karl Hanke certainly isn't one of them. He should have learned that by now but he seems blissfully unaware. He simply cannot let go of the notion that he knows better than her what she wants.

“I could walk you,” he offers with what he must think is a charming smile but Magda is immune to charm tonight; she can see his motivation shine through the gentlemanly facade, the lust, it has been simmering underneath the surface all evening, even though she told him outright that she wasn't in the mood for dalliances. She would take the pleasure perhaps if it were only about that, Karl is zealous enough, but it's never just about sex. It's always about power, as the bon mot goes. What little sway a woman holds over a man comes from denial, and she isn't willing to give that up. Not tonight. She enjoys too much to see him squirm and plead. He must desire her, crave her with an unhealthy passion to be a useful tool in her hand.

She considers winding him up more, allowing him to walk her home, and a few passionate kisses along the way, desperate, clumsy fumblings in the shadows. She could feast on his low groans of frustration, the pleads to let him into the house with her, just for five minutes of pathetic rutting, a quick handjob, anything. 

But it's been a long day, she is tired and there will be plenty opportunity for such games another time. So when he opens his mouth to protest she leans over and presses her lips to his to shut him up. 

“Good night, Karl,” she says, and slips out of the car.

The summer night lies heavy upon Schwanenwerder. It is late and it is quiet. There's nothing to be heard but the sounds of nature. Crickets in the gardens. The Havel behind the houses, small waves lapping at the shore. A faint breeze stirs the balmy air and rustles the leaves in the trees. High in the sky the stars sparkle like gems. 

The world is peaceful like that, a pleasant contrast to the noise of the city. For a few precious minutes Magda can be herself, free of the responsibilities of a mother and wife, free of the social corset that comes with her position, free even of the expectations of an impertinent lover. It's a rare luxury. 

The walk to their property, even though slightly uphill, feels too short – she's almost inclined to finish the whole round, follow the street until it circles back, just to stretch her legs a little but her shoes aren't made for strolls through the neighbourhood and anyway, she doesn't need to stay outside to be alone; she expects the house to be empty – the children are at Bogensee, as are most of the servants. The rest, she assumes, will be visiting their families or enjoying Berlin's night life since she has not announced her return. As for her husband, God knows where he hangs about. In all likelihood he's at one of his numerous love nests, fucking his mistress, that Czech whore.

Magda bristles a little at the thought. She can't decide what's more of an insult – the fact he doesn't even attempt to keep his affair a secret, that he flaunts his slut like a trophy everywhere he goes, or the fact that he didn't even have the sense to choose a girl of German blood. Magda thinks she would have an easier time accepting her husband's infidelity if he had picked a pretty little nobody like the Führer has. Some discreet girl of racially impeccable ancestry, sweet but simple, uneducated, unambitious. Pretty, but in an unsophisticated way. Someone who can be bought with a tacky necklace and a fur coat and who can be discarded without attracting attention.

But when it comes to women, her husband is simply unable to control himself. What masculine traits he lacks in other areas, he makes up for triple-fold in randiness. And it should not be only her who take offence at that but when she dared to complain about it to the Führer, Hitler had just patted her hand slightly condescendingly and told her off for her undue criticism. 

“Dear Frau Goebbels,” he said with a soft, fatherly expression on his face. “You must not judge your husband too harshly. Infidelity is in the very nature of men. Males are always keen to spread their genetic material. Evolution has meant them to mate with more than one female. I don't see the harm in his little adventures as long as he returns to you in the end. And he always does, doesn't he?” He looked pointedly and with a small, conspiratorial smile at the noticeable swell of her stomach. 

And it was true – Joseph always returned to their marriage bed for another one of those short artless couplings Magda has come to loathe, not least for the fact they somehow never failed to put another one of his brats into her belly. It feels as though she had become a mere vessel for his seed, her vagina a luxurious alternative to his own hand, to use as he sees fit, heedless her satisfaction. It never takes quite long enough to assuage the appetite it whets, and all Magda can hope for in her frustration is that he uses his mistresses the same way, as little more than tight wet sheaths of flesh to pound into, chasing an early climax.

At least he has the decency to keep his playmates out of her sight.

But that night, when she enters the cool hallway of their Schwanenwerder home, instead of the serene, church-like silence she expected she is greeted by an unpleasant surprise: the unmistakable noises of love-making. They must have let the bedroom door open, taking advantage of the fact they're alone in the house, and cries of pleasure echo through the empty corridors, exaggerated, excessive, as if intended to taunt her. 

A surge of fury flares up from Magda's guts. For a second, she considers charging up the stairs and dragging that whore out of bed by her hair, but reason holds the upper hand. What would be gained from interrupting them in the act and making a scene? Probably nothing. Better think first and act later. 

Magda cocks her head and listens. It's hard to believe the Czech whore has as much fun as her moans and cries suggest. Unbidden the mental image assembles in Magda's mind – Baarová writhing under her husband, ostensibly in the throes of passion as he hammers into her. An award-worthy performance for sure, yet meant for no one but him, a private display to assure him of his skill and prowess. 

Magda's mouth twists in disgust. 

She slips off her shoes and, careful not to make a sound, she walks through the hallway to the salon. She doesn't switch on the lights, but she doesn't need to. She would find her way across the room blind-folded if she had to. Quietly she opens the liquor cabinet, takes out a glass and a bottle of brandy, and pours herself a drink.

When she sits down onto the sofa with the glass in her hand, they're still not done. _Oh my god, Joseph!_ Baarová cries out at the top of her voice, and _oh yes, fuck me_ and _harder_ and whatever else her dirty Slav mind comes up with and once there's no filthy thing left in her tiny little brain to put into words, she resorts to a litany of _oh's_ and _ah's_ and _yes_ and _please_. From the sounds of it, she must have the time of her life. 

Looks like he's putting in more of an effort than usual, Magda thinks bitterly as she takes a sip from her drink. She is still angry, furious even, but in spite of her anger, some primal part of her reacts to the drama unfolding in the bedroom upstairs in another, quite unexpected way. Low in her belly something pulls tight and she fights the urge to squeeze her thighs together. The alcohol must have lowered her inhibitions, laid bare the sexual frustration underneath her Snow Queen demeanour.

She should have stayed with Karl as he asked her to, she thinks, allowed him to worship her with his tongue until she came apart under it. It would have been nice, satisfying, but what she imagines right now is quite different – she pictures Joseph on his back, his whore riding him when she enters the room. She'd drag her off him by the hair, throw her to the floor and take her place. Tie a ribbon around the base of his erection before she sinks onto it, filling her up so good, and then she would fuck herself on his stiff reddish cock until he begged her for mercy and the pin-pricks of orgasm ran over her thighs – for isn't pleasure the right of a wife every bit as it is her duty to satisfy her husband?

But Magda doesn't move to put her fantasy into action. She keeps her left hand on the arm rest of the sofa, her right curled around the glass, and listens to the crescendo of cries until, at last, silence falls upon the house again.

The seconds tick away on the large grandfather clock, adding up to minutes and more minutes. Magda empties her glass, pours herself another one. She stares into the darkness outside the window, stares and stares until her eyes grow tired and her lids heavy. She's almost drifting off to sleep when she hears it – the soft pad of footsteps coming down the stairs. Unmistakably not her husband's clumsy shuffle. 

At once, she is wide awake. 

She sits stock-still and listens. 

It can't be the first time Baarová moves through the house in the dark. Her way leads her straight to the kitchen, without pause or hesitation, and Magda feels fresh fury boil up inside her again. Soundlessly, she gets to her feet.

Baarová is but a dark shape against the sink. She's grabbed a glass from the shelf and opened the tap to get herself a drink of water. Without thinking, Magda reaches for the large kitchen knife that sits on the counter. The weight is reassuring in her hand. 

Baarová doesn't notice her until she is right behind her. Magda grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her head backwards, pressing the blade against her throat. 

“Not a sound, bitch,” Magda hisses. For a moment she wonders whether Baarová will defy her and call for help, or even try to fight her but she seems petrified. Good. Magda still puts a little more pressure on the knife, just for good measure. 

“Please,” Baarová whispers. “Please, don't hurt me.”

She sounds like a little girl, voice weak and timid; if it's an intentional attempt to arouse pity in Magda, or even maternal instincts, it doesn't work; on the contrary, it does make her want to hurt her all the more: Slice her open, break her apart, make her scream, not with pleasure but with pain this time. It doesn't help Baarová's cause that she's wearing one of Magda's own nightgowns. Magda's fingers itch with the urge to tear it off her. 

“You thought you'd get away with it, didn't you? Fuck my husband. Wear my clothes. Stroll around my house as if you owned it.”

Lída shakes her head as much as she can with Magda's fingers buried in her hair. A sob wrenches itself from her chest. “I didn't… I didn't mean to…” 

“What didn't you mean to, you filthy little slut? Steal him from me?

They're so close, Magda can sense her trembling with fear, the little lamb, and she is tempted, oh so tempted to make short work of her, slit her throat and watch her blood spurt across the kitchen sink; watch her slump to the ground and the life run out of her; but then, she enjoys herself too much, playing with her husband's toy. 

“I'm sorry,” she sobs, “Frau Goebbels, please… Please let me go.”

But Magda has other plans. She leans closer. “Even if I let you go now I can always get to you,” she whispers. “All it takes is a word. You know that, don't you?”

Lída nods, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“One word, and your life ends behind barbed wire, and not even my husband will be able to save you.”

Lída is sobbing uncontrollably now. Her fear is so heady, it's easy to get drunk on it. 

“So when I take the knife away, you will do as you're told?”

The answer is hardly more than an exhalation. “Yes.” Then more firmly. “Yes of course.” 

It sounds credible enough.

Magda slowly drops the knife. Naturally, her husband would pick a pliant little thing, not as harmless and naive as the Führer's Liebchen perhaps, but submissive enough to be fun to play with. She still ensures the knife is safely out of reach before she uses her free right hand to cup her throat where moments ago the blade pressed into the tender skin, and Lída freezes up again, differently this time.

Magda puts the lightest pressure on her windpipe, a reminder of the power she holds over her. She knows this kind of touch, doesn't every woman? The possessiveness, the brazenness of a hand gliding downwards, seeking out the swell of a lover's breast. 

Lída's tits are firm, perky. How old is she again? Twenty-three? Magda had a three year old son at that age. The power rush mingles with a pang of envy, followed by disdain. Her fingers find one of her nipples and pinch, hard. 

A soft, wet gasp escapes Lída's mouth. 

Of course, the whore likes it rough. Magda at her nipple even more cruelly. Lída groans. It doesn't sound too much like pleasure, but this is not meant to be a reward.

“Raise your gown,” Magda tells her, and when Lída doesn't move, she adds, more firmly: “Didn't you hear what I said?”

Lída trembles, just as she did earlier with a knife to her throat. Her skin is feverish and slightly sticky with sweat. Perhaps it's from fear, perhaps from getting fucked by Magda's husband. She can taste the faint tang of it on her tongue, salty and pungent and sweet like rotting apples. 

“I'm waiting.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Lída lifts the expensive night shirt, baring her cute, firm arse. Magda has no patience for a display of fake bashfulness. She nudges her foot against Lída's. “Spread your legs, slut.”

Lída shivers but does as she's told.

“Now show me that tight little cunt of yours--”

Magda's fingers dip between her legs, and find her not only wet, but positively sopping. It takes her less than a second to make the connection – it's Joseph's come that's running out of her. The same seed that, without fault, has taken root in her, again and again and again. 

He should be more careful lest he sire a bastard. And what a bastard it would be, a mutt, half Aryan, half Slav. It would have to be put out of its misery, drowned like an unwanted kitten, she thinks. It'd only be a mercy. But then... perhaps the girl is barren, despite her healthy, youthful appearance. Too many back-alley abortions can leave you sterile, and isn't that was actresses do? Murder the fruit of their womb at a whim? (She thinks of Göring's sow, and the rumours she's heard about her, colourful, unflattering stories. At least, she's of proper blood, you have to give her that. But aren't all actresses simply whores in the end? Perhaps better dressed than streetwalkers and brothel girls, but whores nonetheless.)

She parts the soft folds of Lída's sex and thrusts two fingers into her pussy, then three, brutally, as brutally as she can at least, but her hands are feminine and dainty, not rough and large and male, and so she encounters little resistance, as wet and stretched open as the whore is, thanks to Magda's own husband.

God, Magda thinks, how she wishes she had a cock to fuck her with, feel the tight clutch of her cunt like Joseph does, enjoy the panicked flutter of her inner muscles, revel in her pain – but women are poorly equipped for raping one another, and so she has to resort to insensitive, numb tools that will give her no physical pleasure, only the sublimated, abstract delight in Lída's humiliation, and yet it's better than nothing.

She pulls open a drawer to her right, gropes around in it, blindly, until she finds something suitable, a large wooden pestle, longer and thicker than a cock, rough and plump and – hopefully – properly painful. She closes her fingers around it, testing its feel and weight. It will do perfectly.

Her left hand is still buried in Lída's hair and she tightens her grip, twists her fist until Lída's knees buckle and she whimpers in pain. Excitement pools low in Magda's belly. If she had a cock, it'd be hard and throbbing by now. In lieu of that fantasy erection, she positions the wooden tool at Lída's entrance, and Lída, who finally seems to get her intention, sobs in anticipation of what's too come.

Magda pushes and the thing slips into the whore's tight little cunt, and she thrusts it in deeper. The size might be uncomfortable, and the coarse surface, too, but then she's probably had worse. It can't be too bad for her, slick and open as she is. Which doesn't prevent her from putting on a show. Force of habit, Magda assumes. 

She isn't too impressed with the pathetic sounds she makes nor with the begging, the please and no and stop in between the whines and whimpers, and least of all with the promises to stay away from her husband in the future. She knows too well the girl doesn't have much of a choice. Joseph Goebbels is a man whose advances you can't refuse if you want to work in Babelsberg. He even got rid of her fiancé, who wasn't exactly a nobody, so he must be more serious about this than usual. 

It's unfair to punish Lída for it, but it has always been the fate of women to suffer for the mistakes of men, so why should this be an exception? Magda can let her husband's adjutant fuck her, and she in turn can fuck her husband's mistress, but she can't lay a hand on Joseph himself. Her options for revenge are limited. Who could blame her for taking out her anger on Lída?

“You like that, don't you?” she says when she moves the ersatz cock in and out of Lída, paying no heed to how much the rough wood drags against her flesh. “Why don't you touch yourself while I fuck you?”

Lída whimpers but obeys, reaching between her legs to rub her fingers against her clit, for real or for show, Magda doesn't care. She squeezes her thighs together, wishing she had a free hand to pleasure herself too, or better still, Karl crouching beneath her, pressing his eager mouth to her cunt. As things stand, Lída must have enough fun for both of them.

“You were so vocal before, with my husband,” Magda says. “Surely you can show me, too, how much you enjoy getting fucked.”

And Lída gives her best to play the part of an ecstatic lover. When she moans, low and broken and breathy, it sounds almost real, like a genuine expression of pleasure not fear and anguish, and Magda keeps fucking her with her clumsy wooden tool, hard and fast and deep, pushing her towards breaking point.

“Come for me,” she whispers in Lída's ear, and Lída sobs with pain or relief or both, Magda doesn't care. She rams the implement relentlessly into her abused pussy, over and over, waiting for a tell-tale sign of orgasm, shudders and spasms, the resistance of contacting muscles, her crying out, trying to twist out of her grasp, anything.

But before any of this can happen, a slow, mocking clap of hands interrupts them. Magda whips around. Her husband is leaning against the wall behind them, watching them out of beady black eyes.

“Lovely performance,” he says. “I can't wait for the second act.”

~

**Author's Note:**

> I used to write for [aus der traum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum), e.g.: [Berghof](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448615), [Seine Pflicht erkennen und tun, das ist die Hauptsache](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18780739), and the cooperative [Strudel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18800074)-fic). // + prompt fills @[someone-to-hear-your-prayers](https://someone-to-hear-your-prayers.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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